Our Options Have Changed: On Hold Series Book #1

by Julia Kent

  A blue and white pencil skirt in a diamond pattern. White T shirt. Silver hoop earrings, and lots of bracelets. Wedge sandals, which were a good choice because the sidewalks in this neighborhood are uneven brick. Nick holds my arm when I wobble. I love these sidewalks. All sidewalks should be made like these. Wobbling is good.

  We decide on an outside table, and order Margaritas. It’s a beautiful mid-summer night, warm but not humid, and the sun is still out, the July nights still long and festive. Boston’s not usually known for its authentic Mexican food, but this place is supposed to be changing that.

  “One more good meal before you start your life sentence of chicken nuggets?” Nick smiles.

  “Even if Jessica’s right about that, it will be worth it,” I say seriously. “I want this baby so much, Nick, and I’ve waited so long for her. Anyway, I am never feeding my child a Happy Meal. Ever. She is only going to eat organic food, and I am going to make everything myself, so I will know exactly what she’s getting.”

  “Well, that’s admirable, Chloe.” He looks… amused? “Any other plans?”

  “No big plastic toys,” I answer. “Just natural materials like wood and paper and cloth. And not too many toys. I want her to use her imagination. Be creative. And no princesses.”

  “No plastic,” Nick repeats. “No princesses.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “You are really just very beautiful,” he says, as if that follows.

  I look into his smiling blue-green eyes. “Did you have, um, basic…principles for, you know, raising your kids?” I stammer.

  He bursts out laughing. “Yes. Absolutely. Life vests on boats. Helmets on bikes and skis. Stay off the roof.”

  “No, seriously,” I say. “You must have had some ideas?”

  “Any ideas that we may have had about children went out the window pretty quickly,” he says. “We had three babies in twenty-five months, and we were practically kids ourselves. Then, when I became the only parent on the scene, the kids were three and five. I just wanted to keep them busy every minute, so they wouldn’t notice their mom was gone.” He makes a face. “I actually thought that was possible.”

  “That must have been torture.” I want to hear more, but I don’t want to cause him pain.

  “Well, it kept me busy, too,” he says slowly. “I didn’t want to notice she was gone, either.”

  He signals the server for another round, and points to the empty basket of chips. More, please. More of everything.

  I lean forward on my elbows, waiting.

  “She went back to France, you know. Simone, my wife. Ex-wife. She said she wanted the man she married. She wanted a lover, not a daddy. And it turned out, she’d found him.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She had reconnected with her lover from university days at the Sorbonne. He ‘saw her as a woman.’ Not a mother.”

  “Oh Nick.”

  He shrugs. “It was a long time ago.”

  “She left her children.” I can’t quite make sense of it. I’ve devoted years to finding a child to love, and she walked away from hers.

  He looks self-conscious. “Let’s talk about something happy. Let’s talk about you.”

  Two more rounds of margaritas, one bowl of guacamole, and a very large platter of fajitas later, Nick asks for the check.

  We’ve learned a little more about each other. He loves bluegrass and cowboy songs (go figure). He speaks fluent French (not surprising). He has done an ocean crossing, can explain Fermat’s Theorem (it was wasted on me), and has run for town office (he lost). He is deathly afraid of alligators. Somewhere around margarita number three, I discovered that he lost his virginity at age seventeen, to the neighbors’ Spanish nanny. This resulted in a lifelong love of olives.

  In return, I shared my deep love for the color white in all its many variations, my obsession with Miles Davis, and my entire bucket list, including the part about backpacking in Patagonia. Before margarita number four he stops, begging off to be able to drive, but I keep going. So it’s possible that I may have told him (oh dear god) about the Power Underwear Theory. My virginity he already knew about. Yep. Charlie.

  Do you think I might be just the tiniest bit… drunk? Because that would not be good.

  Margarita number five was delicious. I had them leave off the salt. Self-control is important.

  “So,” he starts. “Other than my little brother Charlie and Joe Blow, there must be men in your life. How about that tall, naked guy who was holding you up outside your office? The redhead.” His smile fades.

  “Henry? Oh my God, no! He and his wife are my best friends.” Is it me, or does he look a little bit relieved?

  “Have you ever been married?” he asks.

  “And don’t call him Joe Blow,” I add. “No, never been married. Before Joe, I dated someone for five years, but he got a great job offer and moved to New York, and my job was here. We tried to make it work long distance for about six months, but we both wanted more than that. I want to wake up with someone. I want to come home at night and tell someone about my day, hear about theirs. Go grocery shopping. Have a life.” I pause. “Raise a family.”

  Am I oversharing? Too late to worry about that, I guess.

  “I miss that,” he says softly. “Even after all this time.”

  “Why haven’t you remarried?” I ask.

  He’s quiet.

  “After Simone left, I was in survival mode. I had all I could do to manage breakfast, lunch, and dinner, never mind soccer games and piano lessons. Although,” he smiles ruefully, “I had plenty of offers of help from female friends. All kinds of help.”

  “I’ll bet you did,” I smile back. “Did you accept any?”

  “No,” he shakes his head. “I wasn’t going to let any woman near us again. And when the girls got older, they were pretty protective of their turf.” He starts to laugh. “Once I had a weekend guest, an old friend who lives in Chicago. The girls went into the guest room on a reconnaissance mission. They were about ten at the time. Just as my friend and I were sitting down to a candlelit dinner, Elodie and Amelie came down the stairs.”

  “This doesn’t sound good,” I say, but I’m smiling.

  “It wasn’t good. But it was pretty funny. They were each wearing one of her silk nightgowns. And high heels. Lipstick. They must have sprayed an entire bottle of her perfume on each other. They were giggling so hard they could barely stand up.”

  “Oh no—what happened?”

  “Let’s just say my friend didn’t see the humor. And those nightgowns just didn’t seem very sexy anymore.”

  “Hard to be a dad and a date at the same time?” I ask.

  “Very. But they’re off at college now. All of them. It’s a whole new world.”

  “A new world for me, too, but I’m just at the beginning.”

  Nick looks at me thoughtfully.

  And signals for the check.

  * * *

  There is considerably more wobbling on the way back to his car, but I think the walk does me good. By the time the black Range Rover comes into view, most of the margaritas have worn off. Anticipation has not. My breath quickens, all my senses suddenly acute. The press of his fingers against my spine as he guides me. The brush of his hip against mine as we turn. How his hair curls at the collar, like it’s cozying up. The light whiff of Bay Rhum that makes me want to nuzzle his neck.

  Nick clicks the locks off and opens my door. He’s standing so close, one hand on the door handle, leaning in toward me like he’s ready to breach the space between us, about to take that penultimate movement before a kiss. I glance up at his face and he’s looking at me. Slowly he leans forward and I take Sheryl Sandberg’s advice.

  I lean in.

  Slowly, softly, his lips touch mine, a burst of flavor and heat quenching the anticipation but making me thirst for more. Seconds pass, eternity in the form of intimate touch, the deepening passion turning into a free fall. I’m loose and spinning, falling
into nothing and everything at the same time, his hands holding me in place, his hard body locking me into the only location in the world where I need to be.

  Not want.

  Need.

  Then he straightens and smiles into my eyes, questions pooling there, barely held back, lips twitching with intensity. I turn and slide into my seat. Neither of us says a word.

  The briefest kiss – a taste, a tease, a promise - and I am undone.

  This is a revelation to me.

  The Massachusetts Avenue Bridge takes us back to Cambridge. At night, this is my favorite view—suspended over the Charles River, Boston glittering on one side and Cambridge on the other. Two beautiful cities reflected in the same water. I turn in my seat. On one side of Boston, the gold leaf State House dome is illuminated; on the other side, above Kenmore Square, is the famous neon CITGO sign. The panorama is magical, like being in a snow globe, except it’s summer.

  I sit back and look up through the open sunroof as the stars slide by slowly.

  What’s going to happen when we get to my apartment?

  Will we sleep together? I want him to sleep with me.

  I report to him. He can’t.

  I look over at him, serene and purposeful, his hand leaving the steering wheel and finding mine, resting our clasped fingers on my thigh.

  A promise, all right.

  An invitation.

  He damn well better kiss me again.

  And more.

  On the other hand, we work for Anterdec. There is plenty of precedent for inter-office romance. The entire world knows that Declan McCormick just married one of his direct reports. And I still want to know more about what’s going on with Andrew and Amanda.

  Of course there’s no ‘Visitor’ parking space available on my street. Or on the cross street.

  On the next street over, we round the corner just in time to watch a Volvo sliding back into an open spot.

  So unfair. So frustrating. So Cambridge.

  Please can we just fast-forward? Teleport, maybe?

  Four blocks away, we finally see a spot at the far end of the street. We look at each other and smile. We pull up alongside the space.

  It is the size of a Smartcar. There’s no way.

  I smack the dashboard. Nick smiles.

  I have an idea. “Just go to my parking spot and pull in behind my car,” I say. “No one can have a problem with that.”

  Ten minutes later, we are inside my back door.

  “Would you like coffee?” I ask, turning the lock.

  His mouth is on mine.

  I breathe him in, taste him, move my body along with his. My back is against the door. His hands are pulling my skirt up. His palm runs along my thigh, my hip, pulling me against him. I feel his hardness, and I reach for his belt buckle, frantic for more of him. The clasp opens.

  My god, he’s gorgeous. I start to bend down and he stops me with a kiss.

  “Not here. Not yet. You first,” he rasps.

  Nick pulls me to my feet and kisses my mouth again. We stumble through my open door. He kicks the door closed and I’m on my back on the couch, my skirt riding up, his face between my legs. There is no pretense here. No quiet flirt, no mixed drink, no spiked coffee and coquettish glances. This is pure, raw energy in sexual form, and we’re drawn to each other’s hot skin like a magnet to iron.

  “You’re just as beautiful here as everywhere else,” he says softly, and covers me with his warm mouth, his tongue circling slowly, then faster, fingers pulling my thong to the side, his hot breath nearly enough to send me over the edge, and oh, God, this feels divine. I push my hips forward, abandoning myself to the feeling, familiar and yet completely new, as I feel him smile against me, his attentions both masterful and uninhibited.

  Now I know how to make him smile.

  I am moaning now, in a language even I don’t understand. The sensation builds, and builds, my fingers tightening in his hair, until it crests and the intense shimmering heat spreads all through me.

  And all I want is more of him.

  “You’re delicious,” he tells me, continuing his gentle sucking as I shudder, half my mind blown away by the sudden intimacy and craving for ten thousand layers more of this man, the other half shattered into ten thousand pieces of confetti that whirl around like a cyclone of arousal.

  “I want you,” I tell him, sitting up, legs weak and thighs wet as I strip out of my t-shirt and he pulls his polo shirt off, our hands frantic, breathing labored.

  He steps out of his jeans and, bending down, picks me up in his arms.

  “Where is your bed?” he asks.

  I point and whisper, “In there.”

  Then he’s laying me down and he’s over me, his strong arms on either side, pulling the rest of my clothes off until we’re both gloriously naked, the need to touch like a fever that won’t break.

  I open myself to him, then wrap my legs around his waist. He pauses. I reach for my nightstand drawer and open it. He pulls out a condom and takes care of the niceties, then enters me slowly, his eyes locked on mine, and he gasps. I can barely hear his words, but I think I hear him say, “My Chloe.”

  Our eyes meet.

  “You,” he says as he begins to move, then dips his head down to suck one tight nipple into his mouth.

  And then he starts to move. We move together, faster and more urgent, until his breathing changes to something more ragged. He makes his final thrust. With a kind of quiet roar, he explodes into me, and his hot pulsing pushes me into my own climax, matching his.

  I am his.

  * * *

  I wake up slowly, but don’t open my eyes. There are strong arms around my waist and slow, steady, warm breath on my neck.

  That is not Minky’s breath.

  Oh my god oh my god, it’s Nick!

  Lie perfectly still, Chloe, don’t wake him up. Try to breathe like a sleeping person. Sloooowly. I just want this moment to last, like forever, and if he wakes up he will grab his clothes and run out the door and I’ll be left here making one cup of coffee and trying to smell his scent on the bed pillows. Again.

  Or—wait—that was Joe.

  But dammit, I have to pee.

  And brush my teeth. My mouth tastes like cat box. I can’t stand it.

  But if I move, he’ll wake up and this moment will be over.

  My leg is asleep. I can only feel vaguely uncomfortable pinpricks. I need to shift, but if I move…

  Concentrate on how wonderful his skin smells. Concentrate on the feeling of being held. Relax and concentrate on his breathing.

  I can’t. I really have to pee.

  Maybe if I slowly inch my way out of bed, not moving the mattress at all, and silently slip to the bathroom, and gently close the door so the latch doesn’t click, and…

  This is ridiculous.

  I am an adult.

  A slightly hungover adult.

  Tequila.

  Sigh.

  I stand up. And almost fall down from my tingling leg.

  Nick stirs, and stretches. He opens one eye and smiles sleepily.

  “Hurry back,” is all he says.

  Oh, I hurry. Yes I do. Dash to bathroom, pee, brush teeth, wipe off last night’s lipstick, brush hair, little spritz of perfume on all the places that count. All of them.

  Takes me thirty seconds, tops.

  Sliding back into warm, sex-smelling sheets and feeling your lover’s skin welcoming yours, with nowhere else to be and time to spare, is the greatest luxury known to a woman. This is exactly the experience that O tries to approximate for every client. And we can’t even come close to the real thing.

  His breathing evens out as he slips back into sleep and I curl in his arms, relaxing in a way that is new. No man has spent the night in my bed in a very long time. Joe never did. His wife would wonder. Even when I suggested he pretend he was on a business trip, he always had an excuse.

  The slimy ones always do, right?

  It’s daylight, and I’m entire
ly sober now. I can really look at Nick, see the muscles in his shoulders and his ass, see where the hair on his chest begins and ends, see how he responds to every touch. His face is relaxed in sleep, light brown hair mixed with dark blond and a little silver, with that slight coloring at the temples that makes him look distinguished. His beard stubble has more grey than brown, and I want to lick his lips. He tasted so good last night.

  He was so good last night.

  I sigh, his arms tightening around me, and I find my mind sinking into a soft place I never go, a place where I just am. I’m not a design director, not a mother-to-be, not a mistress, not a daughter.

  I get to be me.

  And as I fall back asleep, I wonder if Nick feels what I feel, too.

  Nick

  I haven’t woken up with a woman’s ass curled against my front in a long, long time.

  I’ve forgotten how good it feels.

  Chloe is soft in slumber, her skin golden and relaxed, fine bones angular and artistic in the morning light. She’s breathing deeply, slowly, her body loose. I sit up just enough to look over her shoulder and see the sheet is my friend, her breasts peeking out, uncovered. She smells like her verbena perfume, the scent so strong that I wonder if she sprayed herself earlier, when she got up for a moment.

  I slept over. In a woman’s bed. She’s beside me.

  I’m beside myself.

  A woman hasn’t slept all night with me since Simone.

  Chloe shifts, as if she senses I’m watching her, and I brush my fingertips along the fine bones of her hip, resting my palm there with a territoriality that feels a little too caveman-like for my own comfort.

  Can’t help it, though.

  We’re spooning, which was comfortable a few seconds ago, but as I look at her closed eyes, the lashes resting gently on her creamy skin, the broad planes and high cheekbones of her face a work of art, I feel myself harden.

  Last night was amazing.

  How about we make the morning even better?

  “Mmm,” she says, the sound a mix of slow awakening and an offer as she turns over, her body warm, her arm reaching for me, eyes still closed. “Nick?”